


Twelve Hours

by nicoleh262



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 19:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4576314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicoleh262/pseuds/nicoleh262
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ovi, Nick, and Brooks take Mike out for his last twelve hours as a Cap before free agency starts. Cameos by friends old and new alike, along with a lot of reflecting. (A lot.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelve Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Pfffft, geographical logistics. Hah. (I am well aware that, by now, everyone has gone home to their respective countries for the summer, but shhh.) I also realize that this is, like, hella late, but I had to wait until the wound had healed a little bit before I could write about it. Inspired by a similar realization I had the night before free agency, as well as Mike Green’s interview with TSN where he described the feeling of no longer being a Capital as “getting slapped in the face” that morning. 
> 
> (Also, I promise that this is very gen: any pairings in here are pretty background/implied. Sorry, friends.)

**12:00 am. July 1, 2015.**  
Mike Green was trying to stop himself from staring at the clock in his darkened bedroom when it happened. He had been trying to sleep for the past hour, but to no avail. Every previous minute had dragged on, the little red LED lines on the clock rearranging themselves into different shapes that all burned angrily into his brain. 11:59 seemed to be the longest and most torturous of all. Because once the little line in the middle of the nine swung its way over to form a full “0”, Mike knew that every subsequent minute would go far, far too fast. Because from that minute on, he had twelve hours left as a Washington Capital.

It wasn’t like he didn’t see this coming. In fact, he’d expected this for weeks. For all of Brian MacLellan’s assurances that they would do everything they could to work out a deal, Mike knew that there was no way they could fit him under the salary cap, not with six other free agents to re-sign. What really hurt, and what he tried not to think too much about, was that the Caps really didn’t _need_ him anymore. Last season he’d been expected to mentor what seemed like a new rookie defenseman every week: now they had Orpik and Niskanen to defend the blueline and tutor his replacements. 

He was trying not to be bitter about the whole thing, and he really couldn’t be: the team was simply moving in another direction, and so was he. It just sucked, mostly. For the millionth time, he tried closing his eyes and ignoring the numbers on the clock. He focused instead on Courtney’s soft skin pressed against his back, his wife long since asleep. He shifted around, trying to settle in.

And then came the knock.

Several knocks, actually. And repeated rings of the doorbell. (Apparently whoever it was forgot that he had a doorbell for a minute.)

Mike sighed and tossed off the covers. Courtney didn’t move, so he refrained from calling out to the visitor to avoid waking her. He threw on a pair of athletic shorts and shuffled out to the foyer, wondering who the hell was looking for him this late.

Mike opened his door into the darkness and was greeted by a chorus of “GREENIE!” Mike flipped on the exterior light, illuminating three faces he’d know anywhere: Alex Ovechkin, Nick Backstrom, and Brooks Laich. The three were crammed onto his front porch like three actors at the close of a play, all clustered together to fit into the spotlight. Ovi’s props included a handle of some kind of Russian vodka that was not as full as it probably should have been, and Brooks held two bottles of beer like rose bouquets. Nick had his arms crossed and the usual “I put up with way too much of this shit” expression on his face that he usually had when he hung out with Ovi for extended periods of time. All wore suits with their hair styled to varying degrees.

“What the hell are you guys doing here?” Mike asked, crossing his arms in front of his bare chest.

“GREENIE!” Ovi repeated, not much quieter than the last time. “You only Capital for twelve more hours now, so we take you out for good time, so you don’t forget us when you making big money somewhere else.”

“Actually,” Brooks cut in, checking his watch, “we’ve only got eleven hours and fifty-six minutes left, officially. So we should get going.”

Mike gaped. “Are you guys kidding? I have to be up early tomorrow to, you know, discuss my new contract and plan out my life for the next few years. It’s kind of a big deal.” 

Ovi waved his free hand. “Not important. You have agent. He’s smart guy. You make plans already. _You_ smart guy, smart guy who come out with his boys for one last night, ah?” 

Brooks nodded in agreement. “Mike, I know you: you’ve got everything lined up for this already. I know you’ve been planning for weeks about what you’re gonna do. You plan for everything, you’re a defenseman. Let your agent handle all of the business stuff, you’ll be fine.” 

Mike, feeling like he was fighting a losing battle, turned pleading eyes to Nick, who’d been silent up until this point. “Are you going along with all of this?”

“Yes.” Mike’s eyes widened in surprise. Nick continued, “Look, Greenie, we’re not saying we’re not still gonna friends in twelve hours, but this _is_ the last time we’ll be able to go out as teammates. Whenever we see each other in the future, it will be different. So we may as well enjoy one last night with you before things change.”

Mike looked from one man to the next, then sighed. “How are you so damn _wise_ , Nicky?” he said, giving the Swede a shove.

“It’s because I’m old. Like you,” he responded, shoving Mike back. “Now go get dressed. Wear something nice, for God’s sake.”

“Hey, I have been teaching the rest of you how to dress for the last ten years, so I don’t wanna hear it.” Brooks began to retort something about his hair, but he shut the door so he wouldn’t have to hear the rest of it.

 

 **1:31 am.**  
Mike was only at the club for an hour before he started to feel old.

Years ago, he, Ovi, Nick (when they could convince him to come along), and Sasha Semin (when he was still on the team) would stay out all night partying, often at this very club, and still get up to go to practice the next day, but now Mike had only had a few shots and was already feeling ready to pack it in. 

The fact that he was turning thirty at the end of this year did not escape him, but the more likely source of his discontent was the memories of those nights out. Being young, having money, having his career and his life in front of him, the world still fresh and exciting—he saw his younger self reflected in the faces of these partygoers.

As he was musing despondently at the bar, Ovi made his way over and wedged himself between Mike and the guy next to him, leaning on the counter. “You okay?” Ovi shouted over the music.

“I dunno,” Mike shouted back, “Just thinking about the good old days. Back when we were still the Young Guns.”

“Was good time,” Ovi said, smiling. “You remember when me and Sasha break table trying to dance _kazachok_ here?”

Mike broke out into a grin. “I had to pick both of your sorry asses up off the floor and take you back home that night. And _you_ had to explain to Coach the next day how you’d messed up your ankle.”

Both men laughed for a minute, then let the music fill the gap in conversation as they meditated on the memory. It occurred to Mike now, looking at the man in front of him, that he and Ovi had kind of grown up together. They’d known each other since they were kids--okay, not _actual_ kids, but young adults who were little more than kids trying to navigate the big wide world of professional hockey on their own. They’d made mistakes, pulled each other up, made other mistakes, and eventually learned from them. They were parallels, but not in the sense that they were exactly the same; rather, they followed similar paths, like two streets on opposite sides of a block. It was just that Mike’s was now turning, forking away from Ovi’s, leading him to a new place. Mike just hoped that he was following the road signs correctly, and that he wasn’t getting off on the wrong exit.

Ovi must’ve noticed the pensive look on Mike’s face, because he clapped him on the back and shook him a little to get him to smile. “Now is no time for sadness. Come back when you _real_ old man, then we can be sad that we are old. But for now, enjoy new opportunity.”

Mike brightened. “To new opportunities,” he toasted, raising his glass. Ovi clinked his own against it and they drank. The burn of the alcohol against his throat reminded Mike of fire that swept through forests before they regrew the following season. “Let’s find Nicky,” Mike suggested. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Mike spotted the Swede in question with Brooks as the two wiggled their way through the throng of people.

“You finish your drinks?” Nick asked, glancing between Mike and Ovi. “Good. We just got invited to a _very_ exclusive party, and we have to get going.”

“Party?” Mike repeated, confused. He looked to Brooks and Ovi, who both nodded, evidently aware of what was going on. Ovi paid for their drinks, then hauled Mike up by the arm to escort him to the door. “Very exclusive,” was all Ovi said.

 

 **2:01 am.**  
Mike would not, under most circumstances, consider the apartment of Tom Wilson, Michael Latta, and Andre Burakovsky “exclusive,” but he supposed that that night, just about anything would go.

“Papa told us about the evening he, Ovi, and Brooks were planning, and we knew we had to get involved,” Latts explained as Mike turned around in wonder at the decorations the rookies had put together. A large banner that read “Good Luck, Greener” hung from the ceiling. Drinks—alcoholic and not—rested on ice on the bar in the kitchen, along with trays of snacks, surprisingly homemade (probably by Andre, Mike deduced.) Mike was impressed, since these kids could hardly put together a pair of matching socks most days.

“Have to make sure Uncle Greenie know we appreciate him,” Andre added.

“And we didn’t want Burkie to feel left out by taking him to the club, since he’s still not old enough to drink here in the States,” Tom finished, plugging his iPhone into the stereo. Katy Perry filled the room, along with a chorus of groans from everyone except Tom. 

“I told you _good_ party music, Tom,” Latts chided.

“I am deeply offended by that, Latts,” Tom said with his usual sarcasm. “You need to learn to think before you speak. Did you not pay attention during our last PR lecture?” Latts rolled his eyes. “Fine,” Tom added, picking up one of the paddles from the ping pong table, “anybody wanna play me for DJing rights?”

Mike was amazed no one was out for the season with injuries sustained from the mad rush to grab the other paddle.

 

 **3:06 am.**  
After a dozen or so rounds of ping pong and at least as many shifts in DJ duty, sleep became harder and harder to fight. Jackets had long since been shucked off and tossed into a pile, sleeves rolled up, ties loosened. When the final song on Tom’s playlist ended, Latts, Tom, and Andre said their good nights and shuffled off to their respective bedrooms. "Somebody can crash in my room," Latts offered. "It's not like I ever sleep there."

"Gross," Nick said. "I don't want to know what my children get up to when I’m not around."

Tom’s face split into a mischievous grin and he opened his mouth to comment when Latts shot him a menacing glare. "Don't _even_ ," Latts warned. Tom pouted.

"We okay out here, boys," Ovi said. "See you tomorrow." Andre brought them blankets regardless.

 

 **3:18 am.**  
Nick fell asleep like he did everything else in his life: quietly, and without anyone noticing until some time after it had actually occurred. 

It wasn’t long after the rookies left that the remaining eyelids began to droop and yawns overtook actual words in conversation. Nick fell asleep sitting up, wedged into one corner of the couch with his arms crossed, brows furrowed as if he was working on power play set-ups in his sleep. (Which, knowing Nick, he very well could have been.) Ovi, for all of his willingness to stay up and party all night, followed just after Nick, taking up the entire short end of the rookies’ L-shaped couch, arms and legs splayed out every which way. Soon, Mike and Brooks were the ones left awake in the suddenly-quiet apartment. Out of a combination of exhaustion and lack of available space, Mike and Brooks squashed together on the long end of the couch. Mike ended up pushed against the back cushions, half on top of Brooks with his head on Brooks’ chest as Brooks lay flat.

This, more than anything they’d done so far tonight, was what really took Mike back. He thought back to when he and Brooks were rookies and dating and had everything in front of them. Now they were vets, and in (separate) committed relationships, and he supposed they still had a lot in front of them, but he couldn’t help but think about how much had transpired already. Things were different--and were about to get a lot more different--but not bad.

Overwhelmed and desiring a distraction, Mike blurted, “Tell me a story.” 

“I've told all my stories, Mike,” Brooks answered with a sad smile.

“Well then make one up.”

Brooks considered this. “Okay.” He paused again, formulating. “Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away named Washingtonia—”

“Really? That’s the best you can do?” Mike said, unimpressed.

“Do you want a story or not?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“So,” Brooks continued, “The kingdom of Washingtonia was a beautiful place, very busy, but still beautiful. In the beginning of the story, the kingdom had suffered a couple of setbacks. They were badly defeated in a major war years before concerning a, uh, an ancient goblet and wanted to bounce back to claim what was theirs. And then, a young knight was born. His name was... Mick.”

“I hate that name,” Mike interjected, wrinkling his nose.

“Who says this story is about you anyway? Stop interrupting.”

“Sorry.”

“Mick grew into a very handsome knight. He had dark black hair that he spent probably too long styling—” At this, Mike shot him a glare, which melted after Brooks finished his sentence. “--and he had the town artisans paint his arms with lots of colors that made him even more beautiful. Mick was a castle guard like no other. He defended the castle and King Leonsis--uh, I mean, Leonidas--with such passion that all other knights in the kingdom strove to learn from his example. Mick just did his own thing and told the townspeople he was there to protect the kingdom to the best of his ability. He and his fellow knights won a lot of big battles together, bringing fame and glory to the kingdom.” Brooks’ voice went quiet. “One day, he received a letter. Mick was so good at his job, one of the neighboring kingdoms had requested his help. Mick was torn: he loved Washingtonia and wanted to continue his work there, but this neighboring kingdom truly needed him. They too were in pursuit of the mythical cup.”

“Goblet,” Mike corrected, if only to lighten the mood.

“That’s what I said.”

“Right.”

“Mick told the king of his predicament, and the king told him he had to follow his heart. After a lot of thought, Mick realized that the neighboring kingdom needed him more. Washingtonia was in good hands under the care of the young squires he’d trained, in addition to his friends of the old guard. He was sad to leave, especially since it meant he was likely to meet his old compatriots in battle--this time on the other side--but his friends understood.” Despite his allegorical assurances, Brooks looked miserable: he fumbled with his tie while avoiding Mike’s eyes.

Mike’s gut twisted with sympathy. Here he’d been throwing a week-long pity party for himself and he hadn’t even really thought about the effect his departure would have on his friends. Mike put his hand on Brooks’ tie. “Tell me about the other knights.”

“Which ones?” Brooks said, looking up.

“Mick’s friends. All of them.”

Brooks exhaled, rubbing his hand along his chin at the stubble growing there. “Well, there was Alec the Great, who was known for his size and brute force. He was the head knight and probably everybody’s favorite. Then there was Nico, the Strategizer, who was just the opposite: his skills with a sword were unrivaled in any of the thirty kingdoms and his battle plans were almost always successful, but he never received the recognition he should have. Then there were Dom, Pat, and Andrew, who were basically the Three Musketeers--those guys went _everywhere_ together—”

“I think you’re missing someone,” Mike interrupted.

“It’s an entire castle’s worth of people, Mike, I’m sure I did. Washingtonia is a big kingdom, I told you.”

Mike snuggled deeper into Brooks’ chest. “Well, the knight I’m thinking of was the most handsome knight in the whole army.” He yawned. “Tall. Charming. Too nice for his job description. Eyes blue as the sky. Name was Brock.”

“I hate that name.”

“Who said this story was about you anyway?” Mike could feel the dark tide of sleep beginning to drag him in, but before he succumbed, he murmured, “He was the one Mick was going to miss the most.”

Mike knew Brooks was smiling, even though his eyes were closed. He felt Brooks’ hand running through his hair before he fell asleep.

 

**5:43 am.**  
_Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt._

Mike groaned awake as he fished around in his pocket, finally grasping his phone and answering it.

“Hello?” he whispered, attempting to avoid waking anyone else.

“MIKE!” Mike winced at the volume, but recognized the voice. Only a morning talk radio host would be that excited at that time of the day. “What’s up, man?”

“Hey Elliot,” he said, palming at his eyes. Brooks shifted a little under Mike, but didn’t wake. “Not much, just a long night.”

“Did you go out last night, dude? Good for you.” 

“Yeah, well, you know...” Mike was good friends with Elliot, but he didn’t want to divulge everything that happened, partly because he wasn’t awake enough to remember it all yet.

“Listen, brother, I gotta go on air in like, three minutes, but I just had to give you a buzz and wish you good luck today. We’re gonna miss you here, but I know you’ll do well in the rest of your career, wherever you go.” 

Mike smiled. Elliot could be pretty crude sometimes and his humor was usually borderline inappropriate in most settings, but, really, he was a good guy. “Thanks, man. That really means a lot.”

“Any time, my friend. Good luck in the future. Remember us little people back here in D.C. At least we’ll always have our park, right?”

The fog that had been hanging around Mike’s head since he woke up suddenly cleared. “Yeah. Thanks, brother. Take it easy.” He hung up and thought for a moment. During the most recent lockout, Mike, Brooks, and Nick had all volunteered together with Elliot to build a playground for a community in need. Mike was proud of the work they’d done that day, but he mostly remembers it as an afternoon with his two closest friends. (And Elliot.) His friends would kill him for waking them up this early, but he had something he had to do.

 

 **6:04 am.**  
Mike drove, because Nick gave him the icy look of death when he woke him and insisted they drive to the park. Ovi had shifted in the night and ended up on Nick’s lap, stretched out like a huge cat. Also like a cat, Ovi could not be moved, nor woken, so Mike and Brooks had to help ease Nick out from under his captain. “And _that’s_ why I stopped sleeping over at Ovi’s place years ago,” Nick whispered. 

The drive over to Old Town Alexandria was quiet: both the city and Mike’s entourage were still waking up. Mike, though, was intent on getting to the park: the sky was already beginning to shift from gray to pink. Mike pressed on the gas.

Brooks and Nick were still sleepy when they arrived, stumbling out of the car and yawning, but Mike ran ahead onto the mulch. It was too early for anyone to be at the park, so the trio had the playground to themselves. 

Mike frowned: he wouldn’t be able to see the sun rise from down here. He clambered up the steps of one of the jungle gyms, his friends following behind him more slowly. When they reached the top, Mike’s breath caught in his throat. He could see out across the entire playground, over the tops of trees and nearby homes. Most importantly, Mike had a perfect view of the horizon. The colors in the sky bled from pink to orange to yellow as the sun climbed its way up and took a seat among the clouds.

Mike’s gaze swept the scene. He remembered standing in this very spot with Brooks and Nick three years ago when the park was completed, a sea of photographers, journalists, and newspeople blinding them with lights from below. Mike remembered muttering jokes to Brooks under his breath about Elliot’s inability to pour concrete and having Nick pinch his arm as reprimand, even though Nick himself was chuckling. He remembered Nick showing off his “Mulch Master” button and stealing Brooks’ bandana just because he knew he’d get away with it. He remembered Brooks chatting and laughing with all of the kids who’d showed up to help, giving them genuine praise and making sure their efforts were appreciated, however small they might’ve been. 

Mike gave the sun one last glance before slipping down the slide back to earth. He stood and brushed mulch off of his rumpled suit. He settled himself onto one of the swings and rocked himself gently back and forth with his feet, not pushing hard enough to get off the ground. Brooks and Nick dutifully took their places on either side of him without saying a word.

Mike’s last sunrise as a Capital. Six hours left. 

 

 **7:27 am.**  
Brooks pounded on the door of Astro Doughnuts. “Halpie!” he called.

After swinging on the swings and reminiscing about their younger days, Brooks and Nick had put Mike back in the car and driven him downtown for some breakfast. Or, at least, they were _supposed_ to be getting breakfast. For some reason, Astro was locked without a soul to be seen inside. “He said he’d be here,” Brooks muttered, shading his eyes and peering through the glass door of the restaurant. He resumed his knocking. 

“We are a little early,” Nick said, checking his watch.

“What’s three minutes between old friends, Nick?” Brooks replied. “And anyway, he said he’d be here.”

Finally, a worried-looking young woman scurried out of the back room and unlocked the door. “Um, we’re not open yet,” she said timidly through the cracked door.

“You guys open at 7:30,” Brooks protested. 

“Yes, but it’s not 7:30 yet.” 

“Look, is Halpie here?” Nick intervened. 

“Hal… pie?” the girl said slowly, her brows knitted in confusion. “Who’s that?”

“Jeff Halpern?” Mike clarified. “The guy who owns this place?”

“Oh!” The girl’s face brightened. “He’s in the back. Which one of you is Mike?”

 

 **8:58 am.**  
“I wanna go to Kettler,” Mike announced once Halpie had stuffed them full of doughnuts and coffee. 

Time was going too fast. A casual breakfast with old friends left Mike at the three hour mark. He felt the minutes slipping through his fingers. Visiting with Halpie had made him feel especially old: he felt as though he was looking into a crystal ball at his future. Halpie wasn’t even forty yet and he had already been forced into unofficial retirement. As happy as he said he was with managing Astro and working for CSN, Halpie probably could still be playing. Mike didn’t really want to think about how he was moving into the waning phase of his career: that, before long, he would be Halpie’s age and could be retired himself.

Brooks and Nick shared a look at Mike’s question. “Are you sure?” Nick questioned.

Mike found himself staring at the box of doughnuts Halpie had given him for the road on his lap. He’d written “MAZEL TOV” in icing on each of them. Mike nodded. “I want to see it one last time.”

“We had a feeling you’d say that,” Brooks said. “You bring the bags, Nicky?”

“Yep. Skates, new clothes: should have everything.”

Mike did a double-take. “Wait, how did you guys know I would want to go skating?”

Both men gave him a knowing look through the rearview mirror. “You’re not as much of an enigma as you think, Mike,” Brooks told him. 

Mike kicked the back of his seat.

 

 **9:16 am.**  
“That’s one thing I won’t miss.” Mike tapped the glass of the back window as they idled in front of Kettler, waiting to pull in. A forty-foot poster of himself on the outside of the building was there to greet them, as it was every morning. “That banner always weirded me out.”

“Not a fan of the jolly Green giant, Mike?” Brooks joked from the driver’s seat.

Mike groaned. “Not really. I mean, attention’s nice and all, but my ego’s not that big.” Nick nodded sympathetically. Given his tendency to avoid the spotlight, Nick probably hated his own massive banner even more than Mike. “I don’t know of anyone whose ego is that big.”

There was a pause, and then all three of them said, simultaneously, “Ovi.” They laughed.

Mike gave Mega Mike one last glance as they turned into the parking lot. “All the same, I hope he doesn’t end up homeless.”

Mike swore he saw a grin ripple across Nick’s face before he spoke. “Somehow, I don’t think that will happen.”

 

 **9:28 am.**  
The ice was empty when they got there. Mike skated out first, getting his bearings. He did a few laps by himself, tracing swirls into the freshly-formed ice, relishing the sound of the skates scraping against it. He closed his eyes. He was a kid skating on the neighborhood pond, his strides wobbly and uneven. He was a teenager at his hometown rink, backpedaling to stop the opposing team’s breakout. He was a rookie at the Verizon Center, racing up ice to join the offense. He opened his eyes. He was a vet, at Kettler, skating his last laps here alone. That didn’t feel right. 

Brooks and Nick sat patiently on the bench, watching him. Mike skated over. “What are you guys waiting for?”

“We just thought you might want some time for yourself.” Nick shrugged.

“If I wanted to be alone, do you think I would’ve agreed to come with you guys last night? Now come on.” Mike tugged on both of their sleeves. “It feels weird being out here all by myself. Like I’m coming off an injury or something.”

“Okay, but wait.” Brooks disappeared down the tunnel for a moment. Nick stepped out onto the ice and did a few stretches as they waited. Brooks re-emerged balancing three sticks, three pairs of gloves, and a bucket of pucks. “Thanks for the help, Nicky,” Brooks quipped.

“Any time,” Nick replied, grabbing gloves for himself and Mike.

They passed the puck back and forth for a while, playing on-ice catch, skating faster and in increasingly complicated patterns. It wasn’t quite like regular warm-ups, or even like regular practice: it was more like the games they played afterward, or on optional skate days. They did trick shots, bounced the puck around, and walked the line between showing off and goofing off. They tried to out-do each other, or catch each other unawares, but having played together for so long, nothing got by anyone.

That was, until Mike got a little too wrapped up in his own thoughts, and Brooks’ shot hit him in the face. 

Mike dropped to his knees, clutching his cheek. “Ouch! Son of a _bitch_ \--Jesus, Brooks, what did I do to you? Fuck.” 

Brooks and Nick were there in an instant. “Dude, I am _so_ sorry,” Brooks apologized. “How bad is it?” Nick asked.

Mike pulled his hand away. No blood. Good. It sure did hurt, though. Brooks appraised him, kneeling to get a closer look. The worry faded from his eyes. “I think it just grazed you,” he diagnosed. “You’ll be okay, buddy.” He patted Mike on the shoulder.

“What happened?” Nick inquired.

Mike returned his hand to its place atop his cheek. His gaze shifted to Brooks’ and Nick’s skates, feeling like a kid under the scrutiny of Mom and Dad. “I… dunno. I was just thinking about…” He swallows hard. “…how this’ll be the last time we’re gonna practice together like this.” He didn’t say it, but mentally, he added, _And how I’m not gonna be a Cap any more._ And, fuck if he didn’t hate himself for it, Mike started to cry.

It was all too much. Memories about the past and worries about the future smothered him, and he choked out sobs. There were few times that Nick and Brooks had seen him cry, and he didn’t want to add to that list, but he couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down his face. Now he really did feel like a kid. Crying over something that he could’ve prevented if he’d tried hard enough. He’d never cried on the ice: not when he was a mite, not in juniors, not when he got his concussion. In desperation and embarrassment, he wished he were alone, that he had shut the door on the three men who came calling last night. He wished he was home, alone: he didn’t even want the comfort of his wife, because he’d feel just as embarrassed for acting like this. 

And then, Brooks and Nick enveloped him in a group hug, gloves tossed off for proper contact. Neither patronized him. Neither mocked him. They just held him as the tears came. 

How could he think he would’ve been better off without these two? And how was he going to survive without them next season? “I don’t deserve you guys,” Mike sniffled. 

Nick and Brooks pulled away enough to speak. “Bullshit,” Brooks said, the usual conviction in his voice wavering and instead sounding brittle. “Yeah,” Nick agreed more steadily. “Mike, we didn’t deserve _you_. And neither does anyone else.”

Mike wiped his eyes with his gloves, taking deep breaths. “What?” 

“Look,” Nick said in his matter-of-fact way, “at twelve o’clock today, things are gonna change. You’re gonna go to a different team. Okay. We’re gonna miss you, like, a lot, but we’re still gonna see each other. Things are gonna be different, yes, but you’re still gonna be my best friend. _Our_ best friend. Brooks and I didn’t do all of this to make ourselves feel good, or whatever; we did it because we wanted you to know that you mean a lot to us.” Mike smiled a little. Nick always knew where his head was at and how to talk to him. He tried not to think about how much he’d miss that. “You gotta look at the positives, Mike. You get to start over, you get to live in a new city, you get to work with new guys. You can still call us and everything.”

“I expect you to still call me,” Brooks chipped in.

“We’re just happy we got you for as long as we did,” Nick continued. “I’m not looking forward to blocking your slapshot next year, that’s for sure.” Nick cut his eyes challengingly. “Unless you’ve been getting soft on me.”

Mike grinned, wiping away the last of his tears. “Don’t think that’ll happen next season, Nicky: you might get slapped in the face next time.”

“Prove it!” Nick said, standing and skating away to the other end of the ice. Mike charged after him, sadness forgotten for now, pulling Brooks along with him.

 

 **11:59 am.**  
Ovi showed up at about eleven, freshly showered and well-rested. They tried not to hate him for it too much. (They hated him for it a little bit.) “I buy breakfast when we done, okay?” he offered, holding his hands up in surrender to the barrage of chirps Brooks, Nick, and Mike hit him with when he arrived.

“We already had breakfast,” Nick said as he sent a puck successfully across the ice and into the bucket.

“Okay, lunch, then.”

 _Lunch?_ Mike thought. How late was it, anyway? Just as the thought occurred to him, his phone began to buzz. _12:00 pm._ It was his agent. 

“Who is it?” Brooks asked.

Mike stared down at his phone as it continued to vibrate in his hand. So that was it, then. Twelve o’clock. Officially a free agent. Officially no longer a Washington Capital. 

How had time moved so fast? How was it already noon? Hell, how had ten years already passed? How was his time here already over?

“Mike?” Brooks prompted. “You gonna answer that?”

Mike looked up. His friends all wore the same expression, equal parts sadness and understanding. It was time to start negotiating, start deciding. Start trying to sell himself and his talent to a bunch of men in suits who looked at him as numbers and decimal points and statistics. 

Mike frowned. _Fuck this,_ he thought, and tapped at his phone, cutting the power. He put it back in his pocket.

“My agent can figure it out,” he said, shrugging. “He knows what I want for a contract and a team. Right now, the only contract I care about is that Ovi buys us lunch, and my only team are my three oldest friends.”

The expressions brightened instantly. Mike tapped his stick on the ice. “Now come on, Ovi, let me set you up for a few one-timers for old times’ sake.”

And they did. The future, Mike decided, could wait an hour or two.

 

 **10:31 am. July 11, 2015.**  
It was a Saturday morning, and there was a box outside of Mike Green’s house that about filled the entirety of his porch. Mike made no attempt to drag it inside. (He was a hockey player, sure, and strong and able-bodied and all of that, but he wasn’t stupid.)

“Hey, hun, did you order something?” he called to Courtney. “Something, like, _huge_?”

“No,” she called back. “Why? Did we get something?”

Mike grabbed a knife from the kitchen and stepped outside to investigate. He sliced the tape across the top carefully. A handwritten note laid on top of the contents of the box. Mike jumped at what he saw when he removed it: a very familiar brown eye stared back at him. He turned his attention to the note.

‘Thanks for putting up with us for so long. We’ll miss you, buddy. Good luck in Detroit (thanks for staying away from New York and Pittsburgh by the way.) Thought we’d send you one last parting gift. One less person you have to worry about now.  
_–Brooks, Nicky, Ovi_ ’

Mike lifted the corner of the vinyl-coated fabric that laid in the box. It unfurled a bit, and his suspicions were confirmed. No, he would no longer have to worry about Mega Mike, the enormous banner version of himself, because he was here, in this box.

“Assholes,” Mike grumbled to himself, shaking his head with a smile. He really would miss them, but maybe not right now.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at nicoley-poley. Feel free to inbox me questions/feelings about this or any of my other fics. (Or if you just wanna cry about Mike Green/anything Caps-related, that's cool too.) Thanks for reading!


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